


Loving and Loved

by AbsurdHerb



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nomad V (Cyberpunk 2077), Post-Canon, Soft Johnny Silverhand, Swearing, and then we're back to..., like one line of angst, no betas we die like V in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsurdHerb/pseuds/AbsurdHerb
Summary: In any case, it is morning, and he has a bullet against his chest and she has dog tags against hers, and he’s laying next to her on their bed because he’d crawled in that first night and she has yet to kick him out, and he looks over at the still-slumbering disaster of a merc next to him, face scrunched against the white late-morning light, and the phraseI love you,stands so clear and still in his mind that for a moment he fears he said it out loud.That’s new,he thinks, then he rolls back over and falls back asleep.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/Female V, Johnny Silverhand/V
Comments: 16
Kudos: 151





	Loving and Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This is placed a year or so post-canon. Post what canon? Good question! V and Johnny each have a body, they live together in Night City, and they're hopelessly in love. If your canon/headcanon can accommodate that, it'll work with this. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Morning is Johnny’s favorite time of day. The late-night scoundrels lay bleeding out in ditches somewhere, so the ordinary caliber scoundrels like himself can have some fun without getting flatlined. Plus, the irony has its appeal. Morning in Night City? It’s charming.

Despite that, nothing can pry Johnny out of bed before nine o’clock. V is one of those aforementioned late-night scoundrels, after all, so the hours he keeps vary with the eddies she brings in and the number of bullets she brings back home with them.

The first time he’d truly woken up in 2077, he’d woken up with a bullet pressed to his palm, wrapped in wire. V’s bullet. Her first death. A keepsake from beyond the grave.

When V arrived, not long after that—barreling around the corner, urged by a connection that would never really fade, sheets imprinted on her face—she handed him another, tiny, crumpled thing of metal. 

“Where’d this come from?” he’d asked.

“Nowhere fatal,” she’d replied. 

Half a lifetime ago, he’d given her his dog tags for a reminder. Now she hands him bullets. _Alive,_ they promise. _I’m alive, you’re alive, we made it, we’ll be ok._

Well, he assumes that’s what they mean, anyway. It’s what they feel like, in the late hours, when he rolls one between his fingers and eyes the crooked line-up on a shelf where she keeps trying to slide Samurai records. It’s what they feel like when he counts each one as a time she didn’t die, and tells himself that this time won’t be any different.

In any case, it is morning, and he has a bullet against his chest and she has dog tags against hers, and he’s laying next to her on their bed because he’d crawled in that first night and she has yet to kick him out, and he looks over at the still-slumbering disaster of a merc next to him, face scrunched against the white late-morning light, and the phrase _I love you,_ stands so clear and still in his mind that for a moment he fears he said it out loud.

 _That’s new_ , he thinks, then he rolls back over and falls back asleep.

//

When he wakes up for the second time, he realizes that it really, truly, honestly, is not.

//

“Johnny,” Vik greets. The two of them have cultivated a level of civility which continues so long as Viktor manages to forget that Johnny was once killing V. “Not often you come here alone.”

“Thought I could use a tune-up. Plus, I had a question for you.”

Vik waves him onto the table and pulls out the box of vintage tools which he would die before admitting he keeps just for Johnny’s arm. “Elbow servos still giving you trouble?” 

“How long have I been in love with V?”

Viktor’s organic hand grows very still. His metal hand keeps fiddling. “Johnny.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me you’re kidding. You didn’t know?”

“‘Fraid not.”

Viktor’s flesh hand rejoins the show. “Kid, I knew from the second you brought her here, shoved off my other patient, and demanded I save her life.”

Johnny thinks about this for a moment. “You were more cooperative than I expected.”

“I would have shot you otherwise,” Vik snorts. “Still might. But I think Mama Welles has dibs on the shovel talk.”

Johnny likes to think of himself as a sensible man. So of course Senora Welles scares him. "Is it too late to flee the city?”

//

“Hey Misty. Read my tarot?”

“Hey Johnny. The lovers upright, and the ace of wands.”

“Thanks.”

Johnny doesn’t really track that mystic shit, but he could swear she normally had to use cards for that.

//

“Panam, my old pal—”

Panam leans to the left and the right, peering over Johnny’s shoulders.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” she demurs. “I was just wondering where V is, with the shotgun to your back.”

Johnny turns a circle, hands raised. “No shotgun. Can a man not simply enjoy the company of the Aldecaldo’s finest?”

“Uh-huh. Finest what?”

“Ass?” 

Panam sighs. “Come in.”

Johnny hates to admit it, but the static nomads out here have a pretty decent setup. Dakota’s old garage has space for vehicles, people, and cargo. The legality of any is irrelevant, luckily for Panam. He’s seen the NCPD warrant on her, and it’s got him halfway to suggesting they stage a jailbreak.

“Panam,” he says, once they’re tucked into her own nook of the garage. Her truck looms outside, offering them some measure of privacy. She’s leaning against the wall, glaring at him, because he beat her to the bed. “Did you know that I’m in love with V?”

She keeps glaring, as if she’s waiting for a punchline.

“Because I didn’t until this morning,” he adds.

Panam blinks then presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You two live together.”

“Yes?”

“You share a bed.”

“How do you know that?”

“She has let you drive the Rattler.”

“Couple times, yeah.”

Panam cuffs him on the back of the head. “And it took you until this morning to realize? Johnny! She is a _nomad_.”

He looks at her with blank incomprehension. She mutters a string of profanity featuring the word 'static' like the worst curse of all. When it finally ends, she looks at him with narrowed eyes and a flattened mouth. Long experience tells Johnny that it means she thinks he’s a problem. He cocks an eyebrow back. She isn't the first terrifying woman to direct it his way, and she sure as hell won't be the last.

“Tell me,” Panam says. “What two things does a nomad value most?”

Nerves make him reach for a smoke. When his pocket turns up empty, he grabs for some snark instead. “Good tires and the six tons of illegal shit in their trunk.”

“Their car,” Panam corrects, “and their private space.”

Events reassemble themselves before his mind. Some things begin to make sense. 

“Oh.”

“What I’m getting at,” Panam adds, unwilling to let this particular topic lie. “Is that I thought you two just weren’t big on the civil union front.”

Johnny blinks. “Wait. Panam. Do you mean—don’t tell me—are V and I nomad married?”

//

They are not, as it happens, nomad married. They are, however, as Panam informs him with great glee, approximately nomad engaged.

//

She’s very happy for them.

//

Johnny sits back in the apartment. His and V’s apartment. 

The more he thinks about it, the more obvious it is. Even on the crooked shelves and cluttered couch, he can see the places where they fit together. Where a guitar V never plays perches, easily accessible. Where he keeps a shelf clear so she can drop her guns at the end of the day. Where his Malorian sits in the armory wall. The seat where she sits and polishes it before any of her guns. The same seat he’ll steal when he inches in there on lazy days and polishes her weapons too, repaying the favor ten-fold. 

Maybe it’s because of the Relic. Maybe you just can’t spend that much time with your mind in someone else’s and _not_ expect them to be there. Maybe they’re just…comfortable. Maybe she’s comfortable as friends. They argue often, after all, and over the pettiest things. She doesn’t always feel like she belongs with his friends. Sometimes he feels the same way, like they’re her friends now more than his. They don’t have similar careers—hell, Johnny doesn’t even have a career. He tags along on her work when she needs a decoy or extra hands, but in his own time, he’s nothing more or less than a drifting guitar player with a metal arm and an uncanny style.

But maybe love is this—slotting a person into your life, against your heart, and keeping them there because they _fit_ , against the odds. And maybe he can live with that.

Shit. He’s glad that nobody publishes his music anymore. If they still did, he could kiss his reputation goodbye.

//

This is what he plans:

She’ll arrive home. He’ll make some wry and distant comment about how she could have just asked him out to dinner like a normal person, instead of making strange nomad gestures he doesn’t understand. Her lips will lilt up like they do when he’s an entertaining ass instead of an obstinate one, and she’ll say, _Well, you understand now. Is it my fault that you took so long?_

Then he’ll brush his hands against her waist, slow, just in case he still somehow misunderstood, and she’ll close the distance until they’re flush, body against body, and they’ll kiss.

 _Would’ve said yes, by the way_. He’ll mutter against her lips when they pause to breathe.

Her eyes will drop half-shut, like they do late at night when she thinks he can’t see, and she’ll look at him instead of past or around, and say _Wasn’t I supposed to get you dinner first?_

 _Later_ , he’ll say. _I got plans for now_.

That’ll be a lie. He hasn’t planned past then. Still, when the time strikes, he’s certain he can find some inspiration.

//

This is what happens:

He waits in the apartment until it turns dark, and then a while longer. He begins to pace around one o’clock but gives it up by one-thirty.

He sits on the couch and counts the crumpled bullets lined up on his shelf. He didn’t need to count. He has the number memorized. Twenty-three.

How many second chances can one person get?

Alone at two o’clock, Johnny prays that it’s at least twenty-four.

At two fifteen, the door slides open. V stumbles through with a stifled gasp, and he is there for her to lean against, arm steady under her shoulders. 

“Hey,” V croaks. He can hear the crooked smile in her tone, though she winces against the light. “Guessing I didn’t wake you?”

 _I love you_ , he thinks. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

She wheezes a laugh. “That lie was more convincing last time.”

“Vik patch you up?” he asks.

“Nah. Wasn’t that hurt. Stakeout just went long and ended with a fucking miserable chase.”

They limp together towards the bathroom, where he pulls out medical supplies without comment. She pulls up her shirt, revealing the graze on her ribs. He cleans it off as gently as he can. His flesh hand accommodates the delicate operation, warm and yielding under the cloth. His metal hand serves just as well, steadying and soothing behind her back. Just the same, she hisses twice from the sting. 

A meandering hand reaches for a MaxDoc. Johnny bats it away. “Last time you took one of those at this hour, you didn’t sleep till the next day.”

She has the gall to pout at him. The running and the night air have painted her cheeks ruddy and raw. Her lower lip is busted from a fist-fight she probably started. “Things need doing, Johnny.”

 _I love you_ , he thinks as he grabs a tube of antiseptic. “Yep. And it could have waited until after you slept.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

He doesn’t have to be in her head to know she regrets saying it as soon as it crosses her lips. She doesn’t have to be in his head to know how deeply it hits.

Neither of them says a word. 

He finishes with the bandage, then offers her his arm once more. She takes it, and he leads her to bed. V folds down into it, curls down into the sheets. She pats the bed next to her, and he obeys the wordless command, wrapping his arms around her from the back.

If Panam knew, she would see just another damning point against them. In truth, it probably is one. Fuck. He really is oblivious, isn’t he?

“Told ya it was nothin’,” V murmured. One hand lazily gestures towards the shelf of bullets. “Didn’t even bring you a keepsake.”

If he holds her a bit tighter, who’s there to see? “Don’t tell me you’re _trying_ to get shot now.”

She wraps her hand around his. “Worrywart.”

Her back slots against his front. She’s solid, warm, and alive. He’s just the same. They’ve broken apart before, but still, they’re together. They came back together of their own volition. 

Maybe, for once, it can be that easy.

“I love you,” he whispers against her shoulder.

“Love you too,” V whispers back.

What do you know? It is.

//

He wakes up to find V already awoken. The two of them lie face to face. Her eyes rest on his, steady as ever.

“Did you mean it?” she asks.

Johnny’s lips twitch up, but his tone stays steady and serious. “I’ve loved you since we were one person and a Relic.”

A grin curls across V’s face, and she brushes a hand against his jaw. It pauses there—as if she’s waiting for permission. As if he could be anything but hers.

“That makes this easier,” she said. “‘Cause same.”

Johnny leans into her touch, putting his own hand up over hers. “Didn’t realize it until yesterday, somehow. Took Vik to tell me after that.”

V freezes. “Wait. You went to Vik about this?”

Johnny’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he watches as the horror dawns on V’s face. “Not just Vik.”

“Who—”

“Panam. And let me tell you, she had some very interesting tidbits to share—”

V rolls over, throwing an arm across her face with a melodramatic groan. “That woman will be the death of me.”

Johnny rolls over her, half on top of her. She’s not looking, but even if she was, he wouldn’t try to hide the smile on his face. “Said that about me too. Can’t help but notice that you’re still kicking.”

“Nope,” she says. Her arm muffles her voice. “You have bad information. V is dead. Call again later.”

Johnny hums in consideration. “So we’re not nomad engaged?”

V’s arm shoots off her eyes, which have gone wide and disbelieving. “What? No! Is _that_ what Panam told you?”

“Well, she did use the word ‘approximately’—”

V laughs. It begins as a giggle, then grows so large that it shakes the bed. Johnny bats a flailing arm away, saving himself from her mirth. V laughs, laughs, and keeps laughing, until tears spring to her eyes and she’s gasping for breath.

“Panam ships it,” she chokes out between guffaws.

 _I love you_ , Johnny thinks. Then, because he can, he says it.

V’s face lights up in a different way. It softens the lines the streets make harsh and brightens the eyes that exhaustion makes dark. If Johnny had to choose just one word for it, he would try delighted, or maybe awestruck. 

“I love you too.” She says. 

A second later, she snorts, and the moment dissolves. “Can’t believe this though. Panam ships us.”

“Not just her,” Johnny admits. “Misty faked a tarot reading for me.”

V laughs again, quieter, but no less sincere. Johnny guesses that her sore sides are the only thing holding her back. 

“Got another question.”

V quiet and shrugs. “Shoot.”

“What did you think Panam told me?”

V colors. Her eyes keep darting away and back, like he’s hard to look at but she doesn’t want to let him out of sight. “Well. Vehicles are important to nomads. So, me letting you drive was…it was a big gesture, right? It just means that I trust you. Hell of a lot.”

“Mhm. And sharing space?”

“That more than trusting you, I like you. I don’t get tired of you. I want you around—” she cuts herself off, heaves a sigh. “I was waving a giant sign around that says you’re the most important person in my life, alright? Not a proposal, but—stop grinning, you dick!”

He fails to comply, overtaken by a schoolyard nostalgia. 

“You liiiike me.” he lilts.

Her face lights up with that same plain delight. “I do,” she says. “God help me, I do.”

He leans over. His hair falls off out from behind one ear, brushing against the side of her face. “Hm. You can do better than that.”

“Fine.” She reaches up, tucking his hair behind his ear. “I love you, Johnny.”

If he could paint, he would paint this moment, so it could live forever, undisturbed by the failings of human memory, bursting with human emotion. But he can’t paint, so he just looks, drinking her in, mussed from sleep and hoarse with laughter. Safe, alive, and warm in his arms. Loved and loving.

“My turn,” she says. “Got a question.”

She’s looking up at him, eyes half shut, awash in the white morning light. Her chin tilts up, just a bit, like she’s ready for a challenge. It tugs at his heart and a bit lower. He wants to brush his hand against the line of her neck and trace the muscles down. He wants to taste her pulse and make it rise.

“Ask,” he says.

“Can I kiss you?”

He leans down until there’s no space between them. They’ve always fit together. What had he said back then—like dick and cunt? 

Ha.

“Only if I can kiss back,” he whispers.

Then V’s lips are on his, precious, pressing, promising and—

Damn. It’s one hell of a thing, to be in love.


End file.
